Frozen Souls
by Thescentofmoonlight
Summary: ArthasxFrostmourne, utter crack. Contains limey sex scenes, and a certain disregard of lore. And a certain amount of fluff, bizarrely.


**A.N. So this annoyed the hell out of my boyfriend cause I basically fucked the lore in the ear. Just accept that it's not quite accurate and feel the love, the totally sane and healthy love between zombie and sword. Thanks to a rather excellent writer for this crazy idea, and I need to start thinking of my own crack pairings at some point...**

A chilly draft whistled through the Icecrown Citadel, but the Lich King, Arthas Menethil, didn't feel it.

Well, of course he didn't.

He's undead.

But even if he were capable of feeling the cold, he'd not have noticed the breeze, as he was busy, polishing his sword. Frostmourne, although I'm sure you know that. The weapon had already had a good meal of souls, and now, as Arthas ran the cloth lovingly over the blade, letting the oil with its arcane infusions sink into the metal, it was in sword heaven. And letting it be known.

"Ohh, Arthas... You're so gentle..." The blade seemed to vibrate gently, like a tuning fork striking a low note. Arthas always assumed this was the talking sword equivalent of moaning.  
"Ah! Don't let go of my handle... Grip tighter..." Yeah, he was really glad no-one knew about this. Especially considering where it usually went...

What? He spent all his time alone on a block of ice! When you're in that position and your closest friend/captor/weapon is responding to being touched like that... Well, it's hard not to enjoy it, okay? It's not weird! The Lich King shifted slightly, cursing cold, undeath, and chainmail underwear. And cold chainmail underwear in particular. And, of course, his oddly beautiful Frostmourne, the dark oiled blade gleaming wickedly, the hilt almost buzzing in his hand... He could hear it whispering to him, in the long cold nights, the only thing that kept him warm... The sweet words of loyalty, of alleigance, oh yes, my leige, I am all for your very own... And you are mine...

"I am yours" mumbled Arthas aloud, thoughtlessly. The sword's buzzing moved up a note, as if greatly pleased.

"Why thank you, my liege," and he'd never admit it but being addressed like that made the Death Knight's knees weak, "and I am, of course, your faithful servant... Is there any way you would have me serve you, after all you have done for me this evening?"

And it was a trip down memory lane, remembering all those times that this had happened... Oh, Frostmourne loved to be polished, and the Lich King was happy to oblige... Even if it did end with him sprawled on the floor with that oddly sensitive hilt buried in his... Yeah. How did that cursed thing move without him touching it?

He's talking about the sword, you guys. He knows how erections work.

Yes, of course he has one. Haven't you been paying attention?

The sword's buzzing increased in pitch again, snapping Arthas out of his reverie. But no words were needed. The look in those endless blue eyes said it all... They tumbled to the floor, or clattered in Frostmourne's case, and he took control of gauntlet-clad hands to unbuckle straps and things frantically, stripping enough of the armour to allow access, although of course not all of it. That would have worrying results. Cold metal on deathless flesh, but fire ran through the king's veins.

His hand, unbidden by him, was freed from the gauntlet and went to the bottle of oil, and then to the vibrating hilt of the runeblade... Its cries were louder than earlier...

"My lord... Ah! Yesss!" Arthas inwardly cringed at the thought of someone hearing, and then forgot as his hand gripped the pommel, avoiding the spines, and brought the hilt to his entrance...

It was late at night. The fun and games were over, the oil was cleaned up, along with some other things, and Arthas had returned to his seat on the throne. He didn't sleep. Needed no food. He was the Lich King. But now, he cradled his sword, the container of his soul, his owner, his love, his identity, closer than one might expect, and as it murmed what probably counted as sweet nothings, drifted into darkness.


End file.
